


Hiraeth

by Void (EroEmo)



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, M/M, Memory Loss, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Unhappy Ending, Unreliable Narrator, spooky scares but actually it's just Sad, trying to recover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-01-05 16:17:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21211469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EroEmo/pseuds/Void
Summary: Crowley vaguely saunters into insanity, or at least he thinks he does. Truth might actually be worse.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> At the beginning of each chapter there will be additional trigger warnings, because some of them only apply to certain parts of the story and not the rest. The fic is rated M due to later parts of the story, too (it will contain some graphic descriptions but they don't really fit into standard AO3 warnings so I'm giving you a heads up).
> 
> Also, the story picks up immediately where the prologue (in a comic form) ended, so I recommend reading that first for the better understanding of what's going on. To be found here: [[1]](https://www.instagram.com/p/B3NMjzVoeDQ/) [[2]](https://www.instagram.com/p/B3UuAkvo8hj/) [[3]](https://www.instagram.com/p/B3pEchkFrnK/)
> 
> All of this being said, enjoy the ride on this Angst Train.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this chapter, there is no extra warnings (although Crowley is horriby distressed for the whole time).

The silence of the room lingered a bit longer than usual. Neither of them moved nor did they bother to make a sound. It felt like a vacuum.

“Are you afraid of being hurt?”

Crowley tilted his head slightly. “I don’t know. I just wish I knew what the fuck to do.”

A pause, deliberate this time. Then Gabriel spoke. “Maybe start taking pills you’ve been prescribed? Hm, Mr. Crowley?” He heard a snort.

“They don’t work.”

“They would if you were actually taking them regularly, as advised.”

_ I was, _ Crowley wanted to say. _ For three weeks, maybe, and they didn’t do shit. _He wanted to throw it at Gabriel’s face but there was no use in that. Not again. They had this conversation before, after all. More than once.

About medication and how it could help. About how it did nothing except make him drowsy or twitchy or both. About how he decided to throw away the remaining pills.

Gabriel was a good psychiatrist, and not because he had various certificates on the wall in his office to prove that. People were actually recommending him, expressing their gratitude in the comments section on numerous websites, be it for much needed prescriptions or long‒term therapy that helped them in the recovery.

He, however, seemed completely incompetent in Crowley’s case, or at least not able to cater to his needs. They’d been seeing each other for months now, and Crowley couldn’t really see any progress ‒ and there should have been _ some _ , given the nature of his problem. He briefly considered suggesting that maybe another doctor would be a better fit, but he dropped the idea. If anything, Gabriel seemed incredibly, _ awfully _ proud and painfully professional. He would probably sooner sign Crowley up to the psychiatric ward in the nearby hospital rather than cross him off a list of patients. That could be seen as a failure, and that, Crowley suspected, was something Gabriel did _ not _tolerate.

“Mr. Crowley, you said the shape seems to be getting closer,” Gabriel said, changing the subject, as he always did when Crowley kept his mouth shut for a while. “Have you seen it in the action, so to speak, of taking steps towards you? Or is it more of a general feeling that the silhouette appears vaguely closer to you than the last time?”

“Something in between.”

“What do you mean?”

“I haven’t seen it walking in my direction but‒” he took a deep breath, trying to put his words into a coherent string, “‒I sometimes see it in the same spot, like when I’m going through the park, and it appears around the specific place each and every time. And I saw it that one day, behind the tree. The next time I saw it, it was around the same tree but _ in front _ of it, not _ behind _ .”

“And the feeling?”

“Yeah, it sure does feel like it’s getting closer. Not rapidly as if it was, I dunno, attacking me, but more subtly. One step at a time.”

“One step at a time,” Gabriel repeated, writing something down. He sometimes did that, and Crowley couldn’t help but wonder what he found so interesting in the chaos that was usually leaving his mouth.

“Okay, Mr. Crowley, that was a very informative meeting, however our session is nearing the end,” Gabriel got up, extending his hand. “See you next week, and please, remember what you’ve been told on previous occasions regarding anxiety.”

“Sure thing,” he muttered, shaking Gabriel’s hand and turning to leave. “Bye doc.”

Even though things he’d been told during the last few meetings were generally useful, anxiety wasn’t really something he had been struggling with. At least not to the extent that was above the norm. What he managed to gather during his personal investigation through the depths of the Internet on sleepless nights suited more under the category of _ schizophrenia _ or some sort of _ psychosis, _ not _ anxiety _.

Not that he was about to argue about this with his therapist. Arguing with him never did any good, only brought both of them headaches.

  
  


Crowley now headed to work, which was (rarely) a blessing and (frequently) a curse. Being at work meant less time for worrying about what might be lurking behind the corner but it also meant dealing with coworkers. Both were awful, although for slightly different reasons.

For example, as he was entering the building, his boss greeted him with crossed arms and unamused expression.

"You're late."

"Nice to see you too, boss."

Crowley tried to get past the small figure but it followed, quick pace compensating for the short legs.

"It's the second time this week, Crowley. I don't think you're taking this job seriously enough anymore." They rushed past him and blocked the hallway, forcing Crowley to stop in his tracks. "Are you?"

"Boss, listen, I try as hard as I physically and mentally can, it's not my fault the bloody taxi got stuck in a traffic‒"

"Excuses, excuses." They clicked their tongue. "All I hear lately from you are excuses."

Crowley sighed, trying to smile. Use some charm that he, allegedly, had.

"If your performance doesn't improve, I think I'll hand your project over to Henry."

Crowley stopped smiling. "Henry? Henry Astur? You must be kidding me, he‒"

"Keep your personal opinions to yourself, Crowley."

"But‒"

"Less whining, more working." And with that they left, leaving Crowley in the empty corridor in-between offices.

He sighed heavily, wondering where to go. Neither of the places were really meant for him, his desk on an entirely different floor.

As he headed to the elevator, he wondered how he got here and why, then decided it wasn't worth his mental efforts and stopped. There was a long working day ahead of him, after all. Better to save the energy while he still had any.

Eventually, he plopped down by his desk, vaguely waving at and mildly terrorizing the new intern to bring him some coffee. The kid was nice, and quite skilled at what he did, but he had about zero backbone as well. It was too easy to order him around and, as much as Crowley didn't like using his privilege as the 'experienced coworker', he _ really _ needed that coffee.

"There you go, sir," said the guy, putting the mug on the verge of his desk.

Crowley didn't hear him, already occupied with the task of looking through the terrifying amount of paperwork, answering emails and ignoring the prickling feeling on his neck that he almost got used to those past months.

Almost.

"Are you going home already, sir?"

Crowley stopped mid-step, turned to face the intern and gave him the most tired expression he could muster. Which, admittedly, wasn't that hard given how he's been feeling lately.

"Something like that. Don't tell Billie."

The guy blinked. "I've thought it was Bill?"

"Bill, Billie, it could be Beelzebub for all I care, seems fitting enough if you asked me," he said, a tad more bitterly than he intended.

He didn't _ resent _ his boss, but their behaviour remained the same since his very first day at the job and, taking the accident and its aftermaths into account, he felt he could use some minimal empathy. Even simple _ "nice job today, Crowley, keep it up" _ would suffice.

"Just don't tell them I've left early, okay? I don't feel well enough to be dealing with Dagon and her shit for one more hour."

The intern gave him a small, understanding smile. He had a chance to meet their Senior Manager already.

"Of course. Take care of yourself, sir."

"That's the plan." He waved, going through the back door. Main entrance was too risky.

If it was an average day with unbearable amount of shit from his godforsaken coworkers, he would get inside his car and drive aimlessly around the city for some time. The problem now was that his beloved car had been so severely damaged in the accident that there, technically, was nothing left to repair. He'd been grieving after that old-fashioned, black beauty for a week. Not excessively because he'd been drowsy from meds and in overall physical pain, but still.

The only form of so-called relaxation that he had left were strolls, preferably around peaceful, quiet areas. London was anything but quiet, so there were only few places on his list. Today he settled for St. James Park.

Crowley couldn’t really point out why the place was making him feel at ease, he never was that a big fan of parks, after all. There was something almost comforting about this one, though, as if he was meeting an old friend.

Today seemed rather okay for a walk or outdoor activities, but there were little people around, Crowley noted. Just as he was passing the pond with ducks and swans, his relative peace was interrupted by a small creature running straight at him. After brief consideration and weighing his chances, he moved slightly to the side and caught the dog by its collar.

It didn’t attack him nor tried to wrangle itself free. It just looked at him curiously, as if trying to understand what was his angle. Crowley would like to know that, too. He didn’t really know why he thought this was a good idea‒

"Bad Dog! You can't run away like this!"

A boy with messy hair arrived, coming from behind the trees. The dog began to wag its tail. _ The owner, then _, Crowley thought as he looked at the boy closer.

"Is this your dog, kid?"

"Yes! Thank you for catching him, Mister."

Crowley released the dog, who sure enough trotted happily to the boy. 

"You need to take a better care of it, you know? Train it."

"But he is trained" said the boy with confidence. "He just started to run without a reason and I couldn't stop him."

"...That's what I'm talking about."

He, the boy, and the dog stared at each other in silence. Then Crowley sighed.

"What's your name kid?"

"Adam."

"Okay, now listen," Crowley hunched a bit, to look directly at Adam's face. "First of all, you gave me your name way too easily, you shouldn't trust strangers so much‒"

"I don't. You just don't seem like a bad person to me ‒ you caught Dog, after all."

"And what does that suppose to mean?"

"Dog has a thing for people, like, he knows a bad person when he sees one. He was never wrong so far."

"...okay. But the point is, be careful around people, especially grown-ups. Got it?"

"Got it."

"Good. And secondly, really do take a better care of your dog. This time I caught it, but who knows what will happen next time? It might as well start running and never come back."

Adam seemed to give it a serious thought, judging by the face he made, which was slightly amusing but endearing, too.

Crowley had a soft spot for kids, though if asked about it, he'd deny each and every such assumption. Maybe there was something about kids being inherently honest about what they did, or maybe about their boundless imagination, he wasn't really sure. What he did know was that he would rather give away his post to Henry fucking Astur rather than let something bad happen to a random kid he just met, and that was pretty telling of his priorities in life.

"Okay, I gotta get going," he decided, slowly turning around. "Be careful and‒"

"Mister?"

"Yeah?"

"You forgot about me."

Crowley stopped. He turned around to look at the boy carefully.

"Wha‒ What did you say?"

"I said you forgot about the key." Adam gestured at the small shining object.

Fair enough, that was Crowley's key hanging on a keychain. He didn't remember it falling out of his pocket. Nevertheless, he felt relieved. He couldn't pinpoint why, though, given he didn't really have a reason to be tensed in the first place.

"Mister, is everything alright? You look pale."

"Yes. Absolutely tickety-boo."

With that Crowley left, walking only slightly faster than usual. Something didn't feel right about the whole thing.

Then it hit him.

_ Tickety-boo? Where have I heard it before? _

He simply _ had _ to hear it somewhere because there was no way he could come up with something so dumb-sounding himself.

But he could not recall. Just like many more things from his past.

The way to his flat was uneventful, though Crowley couldn’t say he felt okay. _ Stressed _would be a more correct word to describe his state, was he inclined to use one. As of now, he was more focused on getting into his apartment without killing himself on the stairs, elevator out of order again.

He could _swear _he heard that boy in the park saying _“you forgot about me.” _It was clear as day and still ringing in his ears. But then, again, could he believe in anything his eyes were showing him, and his ears telling him? Also that thing he said to the kid, that almost _ancient_ phrase of ‘_tickety-boo’_ _‒_ where did he pick it up? And when? He didn’t know anyone who would say such a thing. Sure, Henry looked ancient enough, but his vocabulary was rather morbid and limited to basics, give or take few worrisome comparisons.

Crowley hung his jacket by the door and almost immediately headed for the mister. Taking care of his rather big collection of plants was a necessity and something he considered a form of relaxation. Nowadays it seemed more like a poor way of escapism from stressful reality, but he wasn’t willing to admit it. Instead, he preferred to focus on his beloved green charges, some of which developed spots. That should be taken care of, right? Immediately.

And so he immersed his thoughts in the current state of his plants and how he could improve it, time passing by rather peacefully. He had almost forgotten about the uncanny situation in the park _ ‒ _ that is, until the precise moment everything came back to him in full force.

First, a whisper. Unintelligible, but clearly there. Then, a feeling of not being completely alone, so disturbingly well-known. Crowley put the plant mister aside, swallowing hard. He looked at his hands. They were shaking.

He tried to calm himself down by walking in circles around the room, but his moves seemed slowed down, as if the pump of adrenaline was paralyzing him. The feeling was excruciating. He wasn’t heaving nor gasping for breath, but this sudden wave of panic was overwhelming and completely out of norm... If his struggles with paranoia could even be called the norm.

He perched himself on the desk in the living room, trying to convince his body there was absolutely no need to behave like this. Crowley closed his eyes, naïvely hoping this could help somehow. It didn’t and, in fact, only made his limbs feel more numb. He was seeing an empty void behind his eyelids and yet, something seemed to flicker in that darkness, causing even more distress to his poor mind and heart.

He snapped his eyes open, a weirdly familiar stench of burn in his nose.

Then there was an agonizing scream, or rather a distant echo of one, reverberating in an endless loop, making his ears ring in pain.

And then, it all stopped.

Abruptly. Completely.

It felt as if something cracked. Like a dam finally gave in and let the water flow on the village beneath, drowning everybody.

On a surface, everything seemed relatively the same. As if nothing had happened. But Crowley knew deep in his guts that something _ had. _

The feeling of being observed, however, did not go away as everything else. It persisted, from St. James Park, through the staircase and up to this very moment. The awareness of it was making Crowley feel worse. If that could even be achieved at this point, that is.

"I am done," he said to the empty living room, focusing on everything beside the dark corridor ahead. "I'm _ tired _of this. Come out now or leave me alone."

It was partially a plea but, mostly, it was just Crowley's unease rising to its limits. He was losing his mind for months now and today the whole process seemed to reach its peak. Maybe he was talking to the empty room, maybe he was talking to a ghost. It didn't matter. He didn't care anymore.

He was ready to ask Gabriel on their next session to lock him up in a hospital and put as many different meds into his bloodstream as he pleased. Anything to shut his mind off for a bit.

"Come out," he said louder, finally looking at the seemingly empty hallway. "Or leave."

He saw a familiar shape creeping in the shadows. A shiver went down his spine.

Then he blinked. And then he blinked again because his brain apparently had a difficult time acknowledging something was now standing right in front of his face.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: "unreliable narrator" becomes more prominent in this chapter, there is also a painful (physically and mentally) memory recovery scene - nothing too explicit, though.

With a great delay Crowley flinched, at the same time trying to move away, which only resulted in a rather spectacular fall.

"Are you alright?" He heard from above.

He looked up. A rather angelic face was looking down at him, its brows slightly knitted. 

_ You gotta be kiddin' me. _

"No, I am many things but _ alright _isn't one of them." With only a tiny bit of struggle he got up, now on the eye level with… whatever that was.

It looked human. Even painfully so. Like one of those rare guys behind the counter in the antique stores. Plain, old-fashioned but somehow radiating warmth.

"I‒ You‒ Argh!" Crowley took a deep breath, suppressing the urge to yell. "Why now?"

"Why now what?"

"I've been asking, _ begging _ you to show up, to reveal yourself or whatever you wish to call it _ for months. _ My health has been steadily declining _ for months. _ Why now, then, you decided to get out into plain sight and _ talk to me _, for crying out loud!?"

The thing knitted its brows more, looking lost. Crowley almost felt guilty for yelling at it.

Then he realized that, perhaps, there was no one there at all. That his hallucinations finally reached their absolute peak and he talked to somebody that was not even there.

He snorted, sitting in the chair this time. Buried his face in his hands.

"You are not even there, are you? You're not real."

"Oh, I'm as real as anything in this room," it responded, taking a step forward. "And to answer your previous question, I did try to reach you sooner."

Crowley looked up.

"I don't know why I succeeded only now or why I couldn't before. I wish I was able to, though." After closer examination, Crowley concluded the thing appeared sad. It made him uncomfortable in a way he couldn't explain. "I never wanted to make you suffer."

Crowley was angry. Hell, he was furious, even. But figment of his sick imagination or not, the human-shaped thing in front of him looked really, really sad. He didn't have it in him to be mad anymore, even if he wanted to.

"Why did you want to reach out to me?"

The person-thing seemed even more uncomfortable now. "I need your help."

"That sounds very cliché, don’t you think?” Crowley snorted, although weakly. “Like it was a beginning of a mystery story or something.”

“Maybe,” it said noncommittally. “But it’s true.”

Crowley, in an act of desperation, exasperation, and curiosity, reached out. Maybe if his hand went _ through _the thing, he would convince himself enough to stop talking, to stop engaging with whatever that was. Maybe then it would cease to exist‒

The human-shaped thing dodged, clicking its tongue. As if Crowley just did something really dumb and annoyed it with his actions. Naturally, he tried again. And again. And again. Each time with the same result.

The thing _ groaned. _“Can you please stop that?”

“Why? If you’re as real as you claim yourself to be, then what’s the problem?”

Something crossed its face. Something akin to _ fear _. It didn’t respond, nor did anything more than just standing still. Appearing conflicted and concerned.

“Sorry, but I have my own shit to deal with, so yeah, I’m probably not gonna help you with whatever might be bothering you.”

Crowley was ready to leave it at that, maybe even to go past the person-thing and get himself something to drink.

“I won’t leave, you know.”

There was something about that statement that made his skin crawl. He faced the thing again.

“And why is that?”

“I don’t think I can.”

“So what, you’re going to haunt me forever now?”

“I don’t want this,” it said, suddenly looking as tired as Crowley was feeling. “But if you keep ignoring me, I’ll probably have no choice. There is nowhere else to go.”

“I don’t think I follow.”

The person-thing sighed. It seemed even more exhausted now.

“I… I don’t who I am, _ what _I am,” it looked so lost, despair seeping into its words. “I don’t remember my own name or if I even have one. The only thing I think I know is you.”

“Huh?”

“One day I just… Woke up. In a sense. Found myself here without any idea of why, how or when. But then I saw you and something clicked into place. _ I know this person, _ I’ve thought, I know _ I know them. _So I tried to reach out to you, but then it proved almost impossible. As if something was blocking me out. It’s been fading over the weeks but it never went away. Up until today, that is. This invisible wall keeping me out.”

Crowley thought he understood it, more or less. But it still didn’t fit together as well as he’d like it to.

“But I don’t know you,” he said, feeling a tad heartbroken about destroying the person-thing’s hopes. “I can’t remember even if we’ve seen each other before.”

“You sure?” It sounded so _ broken, _ oh Lord. “Are you _ absolutely _sure?”

“No!” He said a tiny bit louder than he intended to. “No, but‒ But it’s not like I can remember.”

The thing blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I have severe memory loss, okay? I _ think _I remember everything I need to know but if I try to remember some distant things, like when I attended college or even just last Christmas and how I spent it‒ nothing. Everything’s a blur.”

There was a silence. Then a really worried look directed at him.

“You should be seeing a doctor for that.”

“I _ am _! It’s just bloody difficult to recover, even if I try my best and the doc is helping me.”

Another long pause, and another worried glance. Crowley sighed for what felt like a hundredth time this evening. 

“This is going nowhere, I’m not able to help you. Sorry.”

“Oh, don’t be.” It gave him a weak smile. “But maybe… _ I _ could help _ you _?”

Crowley gave him his best skeptic look. “How?”

“I may not remember anything about myself _ but _I can try and help you trigger some memories? By going with you to different places, by asking you questions. Maybe that will bring some of your memory back, or ease the recovery?”

He was torn between ‘_ yeah, that could work’ _ and ‘ _ that sounds nuts and I’m the talking-to-myself one here’, _so he decided to shrug in response.

“If my actions could help you, even just a tiny bit, then maybe that would be enough for you to be able to help me?”

“That’s an awfully optimistic scenario, don’t you think?”

“But will it hurt to try?”

On the first instinct, he wanted to say that _ yes_, it could hurt. But then he reflected on the past months, and decided that actually, he didn’t have anything to lose. He didn’t feel particularly ecstatic about his job, he was living alone, and, up until an hour ago or so, he was ready to commit to the life of a resident of a psychiatric ward. If he squinted, it appeared his situation could only improve from now on.

“Point taken,” he admitted. “Though, there is one thing that’s bothering me.”

“Yes?”

“As of now, you don’t have a name but calling you ‘a hallucination’ or ‘a figment of my imagination’ is a mouthful. Is there anything you want to be called?”

The thing seemed surprised by a question. “I‒ I don’t think so? Nothing comes to my mind, at least. Maybe you have something to suggest?”

Crowley opened his mouth.

“But please, don’t call me ‘a ghost’ because, silly as it may sound, it feels insulting.”

Crowley closed his mouth.

He wanted to ask _ why _ the term ‘ghost’ didn’t feel right or at least neutral, but decided to drop it. He also wondered if trying to _ touch _ the person-thing _ now _would prove successful but, against better judgement, abandoned the idea. Then he tried to think about what to call the person-thing. Few seconds into thinking process, his mouth acted on its own accord: “...angel.”

The thing looked puzzled.

Crowley felt weird about the word that left his mouth and angry with his lips since they let it happen before consulting their ideas with the brain main central. However… Strangely enough, it also felt _ right. _Natural, in a way.

“I mean you kinda look like a stereotypical angel. Dunno, seems fitting enough?” He tried to explain, hoping the thing would buy the poor excuse he just came up with.

It looked at him, then in the mirror on the wall, closely examining its appearance. “Since you put it that way…” It turned around, still contemplating the word. “It _ does _feel nice.”

The thi‒ _ angel _smiled a small smile, more to itself (himself?) than anyone else. Crowley, meanwhile, mentally high-fived himself for an excellent handling of the situation.

  
  


Living with angel turned out to be less weird than Crowley had anticipated now that he wasn't a creepy ominous silhouette in a distance. Funny thing, how just in a less than a week he had changed his opinion on things.

Sometimes angel vanished into thin air, only to reappear somewhere else, sometimes angel followed Crowley _ everywhere _for a whole day and a half. Strangely enough, he got used to it.

What he did not get used to was the constant probing of questions that he agreed to answer. They varied from "what's your favourite food?" to "how many friends did you have in third grade?". Sometimes his head gave up, telling him to stop thinking by hurting _ so fucking badly _ he couldn't see nor hear. Angel worried he was straining his brain, but Crowley had a gut feeling memory recovery shouldn't be _ that _painful. If he was hurting all over then maybe it could make sense but his head wasn't a bitch to him at all times.

Some memories, after doing a bit of a thinking and maybe tiny bit of research, came back rather easily. Others, however, were immediately distressing him, causing so much physical pain he barely held himself together.

"Do you think there might be a clue to why you suffer so much?" Angel asked after another such 'episode'.

"Like what?" Crowley croaked.

"Something these memories could have in common, perhaps?"

Crowley gave it a thought.

"Could be? Though I don't even know where to start looking for the pattern."

Angel hummed. "You said you still can't remember much about the beginnings of your job. Maybe let's try there?"

He massaged his temples, trying to make the remnants of pain go away. The idea didn't sound particularly good, but he had nothing to propose in its place.

He sighed, nodding weakly.

As soon as his head calmed down a bit, they headed to Crowley’s office. He had to be there today anyway, his status still being ‘employed’, but it was somewhat both reassuring and stressful to go in there with angel following him.

First time was the absolute worst, for Crowley’s already wrecked nerves that is, but it turned out nobody was able to see nor hear the angel. It did exactly nothing to convince him that he was a ghost, nor it proved he was an elaborate hallucination. Crowley decided to avoid speaking about him with Gabriel, though. He wasn’t entirely sure how he would react and, for unexplainable reasons, he did not anticipate to find this one out.

He was walking down the hallway as he always did, his eyes wandering over the same posters as every other day. Why his company decided it was a decent idea to decorate the hallways with _ its own _ advertisement materials was beyond him. At some point he stopped bothering, learning to ignore them all instead: _ ‘Give yourself the best gift possible’ _ , ‘ _ No need to become a vampire! We have you covered’ _ or ‘ _ The future is what You want it to be. The future starts Now _’ were only a few in the questionable gallery that the hallways had become.

“Okay, so I know I’ve already asked you this, but let’s try again,” angel said, waiting for the elevator by Crowley’s side. “Why have you decided to work here?”

The elevator _ dinged, _its door sliding open. “As far as I’m aware, I was young and naïve.”

The door closed behind them, floors now quickly passing by. “Care to elaborate?”

Crowley sighed. They had this conversation before, and all it did was giving him an enormous headache. “I was freshly graduated, I needed a job. I probably saw the advertisement somewhere and thought that, for whatever reason, this place seemed good enough.”

The elevator _ dinged _again, the another sickeningly familiar-looking hallway greeting them. “Why? What was so special about this company?”

The intern guy smiled as he saw Crowley, nodding in the silent greeting. Crowley weakly waved back at him, making a well-rehearsed gesture of _ ‘make me some coffee, please’ _. The guy nodded, heading to the kitchenette.

“Wouldn’t that be your third already?”

“So?”

“It’s not even 11am.”

“Listen, coffee is the only thing that keeps me going at this point‒”

“I’ve thought it was spite?”

Crowley look at angel, wanting to both snort at his remark and smack him for it. In the end he did neither, shifting his attention to the mailbox full of still unanswered emails.

See, working so long for this Hell of a company learnt him a few useful things. One of them would be that he could sort through messages, marking them as ‘urgent’, ‘important’, ‘less important’ and ‘not my division’ almost on autopilot, giving him a plenty of mental space left to think. It wasn’t always a good thing but now, given his past-time activities of recovering memory and whatnot, it came in handy.

“This place stood up_ , _” he said to angel, his eyes still on the monitor. “Because it had a horrifying amount of branches.”

“Oh?”

“Sure, they need average clerks and whatnot like in every corp, but there is _ so much more. _Biotech sectors, AI-related sectors, neurosciences one, you name it. I think I’ve thought it was mildly terrifying, strange and fascinating at the same time.”

“A perfect place for somebody undecided?” Angel mused, perching on the desk. 

“Perhaps, or at least I could have thought so when‒”

“Your coffee, sir,” the intern materialised out of nowhere, moderately startling Crowley. “Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to‒”

“‘s fine,” he waved him off, already taking a blissful sip. The intern didn’t seem too convinced, but he did what was nonverbally asked of him.

“You should be nicer to him, you know?” Angel watched the guy disappearing in the maze of cubicles. “He doesn’t deserve to be treated like he is now.”

Crowley sighed. “This is corp, not a nursery.”

Angel glared at him.

“Okay, I know,” Crowley sighed. “I know. You’re right. It won’t change much, though. One person being marginally nicer to him won’t do much in a workplace full of morons.”

“I feel like you’d be surprised,” he said, his eyes wandering around the place. “A tiny spark of kindness sometimes can do miracles to one’s well-being.”

Crowley hummed, drinking some more of his coffee. “Maybe. Though how can you know?”

Angel didn’t look troubled with the question. “It’s one of those things I _ know _I know, though I’m not entirely sure from where or when.” He smiled at him, radiating warmth with it. “Just like walking or talking, you know?”

Crowley bumbled something incomprehensible in response, deliberately avoiding looking at angel. There was something about him when he was like that, all kind and empathetic, that made him weirdly nervous. He wasn’t entirely decided whether it was a good thing or not.

He glanced at the paperwork that needed to be looked through, and at the sticky notes all over his cubicle that were reminding him what reports still needed to be written. He sighed and closed his eyes, returning to the lost track of thoughts.

A place for somebody undecided. Had he been undecided? Had he been lost, life-wise, back in a day? Or at least more so than now? Crowley did know he’s graduated without a hussle, and he had a vague feeling he’d felt happy about opportunities and all of the possibilities back then. It’d been a chance to start anew, to finally be able to take steps towards _ some _direction, a hopeful and a happy one at that. Towards settling down, maybe.

_ Wait. _ Settling down? Well, sure, people do tend to settle down, get a life and whatnot. A very basic concept. This phrase, though. It did entail, at least in social terms and Crowley’s understanding, a certain number of things.

A house or a flat? Checked.

A job that pays the bills? Got that covered.

A car? He used to have one.

A partner? …

Hm.

Did he date somebody back in college? …

Did he? …

…

A wave of acute pain surged right through Crowley’s eyes and straight into his brain, all his basic abilities ceasing to function. He saw black and black only, and were his eyes open or closed? He put a shaking finger in a place where one of them should be. Closed, it seemed. Did he close them or did they do this on their own? He tried to crack one eyelid open, very blurred but pristine tiles revealing themselves beneath him. 

It hurt.

Did he get up from his post and went to the bathroom? He couldn’t tell, his eyes were threatening to explode, ears ringing furiously the whole time.

It hurt so much.

Crowley was marginally aware his forearms were touching the ground. When did he fall? Was there a fall at all? Or did he crawl the whole way here?

It hurt so much _ so much _ ** _so much._ **

** _IT HURT SO MUCH._ **

Then, there was a faint light in that darkness. It grew bigger and bigger, until it filled up the whole room.

Crowley was lying in a hospital bed. Or maybe it was a table? He couldn’t tell, his head hurt _ too much _to dwell on this. But the whole place did look like a hospital.

And there, behind the glass-panelled door, was the intern guy.

He appeared very agitated, yelling something at the personnel. Crowley’s mental processes might be scrambled, but he had enough cognisance left to make out one word. 

Cruel.

The intern was throwing his hands in the air, repeating ‘cruel’ over and over again, one or two times gesturing in the slightly left ajar doors, and then somebody took him, and there was gesturing no more.

Was something ‘cruel’ happening to Crowley right now? It didn’t feel like it. Not that his body felt like its usual self, either. Everything hurt so so much, especially the head.

Was all of this even about him, anyhow?

Crowley recognized the feeling: tired. He felt tired. And so he let his eyelids close, the world once again becoming a pitch black void.

Then he blinked again and saw the angel’s face hovering over his, his hand retreating from Crowley’s arm.

“Crowley? Are you okay?” He stood up, concern still on his features. “I think you’ve just passed out‒”

Crowley made an effort of lifting his head a tiny bit ‒ he recognized the bathroom tiles, and dropped it again. He grunted.

“I think I might throw up.” He said very calmly, and in three second he was up and in the nearest cabin, holding the toilet bowl like a lifeline.

The whole thing felt awful and gross but he did, in fact, feel marginally better after everything was over. He took a few more minutes in private, just steadying his breath, before he let go and came out. Angel was waiting at him patiently, still a bit worried on the edges.

“Granted, I feel like shit,” Crowley said as he approached sinks. “And look like one, apparently,” he grimaced at his reflection. “But there is some good news, at least.”

“Oh?”

“You’re not gonna like what I’m about to do, though.”

Angel’s brows knitted slightly, mouth slowly opening to probably ask the impending question. Crowley didn’t allow him to speak, though, making a gesture with his hand to shut angel’s mouth. Just as his expression turned from “concerned” to the hybrid of “baffled” and “peeved”, Crowley exited the bathroom, leaving him behind. He was in no mood for a tiny spat, nor he had time for it now.

He spotted his victim and quickened his steps. Vaguely, he was also aware of angel following him. He’d been exposed for so long to the feeling there was no mistaking it now.

“Kid,” he called, and the intern stopped mid-step, mug with still steaming coffee in his hands.

“Yes, sir?”

“Could you remind me what was your name?”

The guy looked a bit confounded. “Newton, sir. Newton Pulsifer.”

“Right. So, Newton…” he started, his pace and voice nothing but casual. “How long have you been an intern here?”

“Um… About nine months? Maybe ten.”

Crowley nodded, circling closer to the poor being. Angel remained silent, though if anything, he did look a bit sorry for Newton, apparently understanding Crowley’s intentions now.

“So you must know that I’ve been absent for some time a few months back due to an injury, right?”

The guy looked even more puzzled and confused. "Um, yes?"

"I'm asking you all of this because my memory is a bit hazy, you know, and I was wondering if you, perhaps, didn't come with a delegation of sorts to the hospital."

Newton blinked. "Um, no sir."

"Are you sure? I may have troubles with remembering this or that but I do remember you, standing in a hallway," Crowley was inches away from Newton now, purposefully invading his personal space. "And one thing that you kept repeating. _ Cruel _, was the word."

Now the intern visibly paled, mug still in his hands and not on the floor probably only thanks to the sheer fear of consequences he could face from the person said mug of coffee was meant for.

"I, um, I…"

"You don't recall anything like this?"

Newton swallowed. "I'm afraid I don't, sir. S-sorry to disappoint you."

Crowley hummed.

"C-can I go now? Mr. Astur is probably looking for his coffee already."

"Yeah, go give it to him. Sorry for keeping you."

Newton nodded nervously and disappeared around the corner like a lightning bolt hit him. His behaviour only reassured Crowley in his stance that something was _ definitely _off, but he couldn't bring himself to pin the guy to the wall more. Not now, at least. Especially since he would be given Hell from Henry for taking so long with his coffee and that, Crowley decided, was traumatizing enough on its own.

“What will you do now?”

Crowley kept looking where Newton disappeared, wondering how to answer that. He didn’t really know, but then again, he was no longer sure about anything he thought he knew in the first place. Why was the intern from his company at the hospital, allegedly, soon after Crowley’s accident? Why was he frantically talking with staff, only to be taken care of by security or something similar? What the word ‘cruel’ was referring to? And why Crowley had a bad feeling about all of this?

“Right now I think I’ll work, even for the sake of keeping appearances.”

Angel sighed, but nodded understandingly. Crowley did have some obligations, after all, even if he wished otherwise.

He also wished for something hot to drink but Newton was nowhere to be seen and he was too lazy to get up and make himself a cup. Crowley sighed and decided to suffer in silence until the end of his shift.

An hour or so later the sound of something being put down on his desk startled him. The intern guy smiled weakly at his questioning look, and left without a word. Crowley wanted to call after him but then he saw a sticky note folded underneath the mug.

“What does it say?” Angel asked, spooking Crowley even more. Sometimes he kept forgetting the guy (well, guy-shaped something) was constantly somewhere out there in the first place.

_ ‘Sir, it’s best we discuss things that bother you somewhere else. Proxima Cafe b, tomorrow, 5pm’ _ the little note said. Well, that certainly was _ something. _

“It sounds… worrying,” angel concluded, glancing at him. Looking for his reaction.

Crowley didn’t know how to react. He was tired, suffering from a weird sort of amnesia and hallucinations _ and _ now, on top of that, his life seemed to be slowly turning into some kind of a conspiracy theory.

He didn’t like that at fucking all.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: unethical experiments, characters' death, graphic descriptions of a body (and also a #body_horror image attached to the scene), suicide attempt (not graphic), traumatic experience (mentioned/implied).
> 
> Thank you for sticking around and if you happen to read through the whole story, you deserve a cookie and a hug. Also, if something isn't clear by the end of the story, feel free to ask!  
That being said... Enjoy the chapter.

Work had been, as one could expect, uneventful. Also, given the fact his life was making less and less sense the more he thought about it, it seemed fair to say _ fuck it _ by the end of his shift. Especially since he could annoy Henry in the process. It was a dangerous game, pissing Astur off, but boy did it feel good when done right.

The meeting with Newton was approaching anyway, so going to the place earlier than exactly planned sounded reasonable. Even angel seemed to think so, since he didn’t comment on Crowley’s additional coffee at the cafe.

As he sipped on his drink, he tried to once more re-evaluate what he did and did not know for more or less certain.

One, there was somebody/something in his vicinity at all times. Hard to say whether it was an elaborate hallucination or some sort of a ghost ‒ he called him angel, for saving them both trouble while communicating.

Two, he had selective amnesia and every attempt at recovering or triggering _ particular _ memories turned out futile. That was to be or not to be helped with, or at least in understanding the underlying cause.

Three, the intern guy knew more than he let on, however he seemed eager enough to lend a hand in the ongoing “investigation” of his.

Speaking of which… Newton appeared behind the glass door, only to quickly enter the place and scan the environment. Trying to make out his face in the not so big but still decent crowd.

As their eyes met, Crowley nodded a silent greeting. The guy approached his table, not even bothering to order anything nor take off his coat. He only let his bag fall on the floor, close to his chair, and that would be it. only his bag landing on the floor nearby his chair. Just as if he was ready to run any second.

_ Nervous, huh? _

"Okay, talk." Crowley didn't really have patience to be polite just for the sake of it. Not to mention he had never been fond of small talk.

"We don't have much time," Newton said, glancing anxiously at his watch. “I'll try to keep everything short and to the point."

Crowley nodded.

"When you have joined the company, you were probably given many different papers to sign. Among them, there had to be a form that authorized the company to use you as a test subject in their newest project ‒ if two independent specialists were to give convergent opinions on the matter, that is."

Crowley raised his eyebrows real high. He didn't recall those. Though, given he couldn't remember most of his time at the job, the situation was not entirely impossible.

"Now, you had the unfortunate accident and the criteria for becoming the subject were met," Newton continued, twitching nervously. "They started their tests but something went really _ really _wrong. I don't know the details but what I do know is that, in order to keep you as a subject, they had to alter your memory."

"Before you start yelling or laughing at me, or decide to leave," he said a tad louder, probably upon seeing Crowley's face. "Let me finish. Please."

Crowley took his hand from the back of his chair, turning to the guy once again. Partly because he asked, partly because the angel looked disapprovingly at his attempts to get away from the situation.

"Thank you. So, long story short, they wanted to keep you but in order to do so, they had to get inside your head. Quite literally."

"They needed to completely erase some of your memories but it is impossible with today's neurological knowledge," he smiled weakly. "So they did what they could, and that apparently meant hiding your memories from your consciousness, so that you were unable to reach it at will."

"So what you're trying to say is that I won't be able to recover my memories‒"

"I didn't say that." Newton said. "You cannot access it consciously, yes, but memories are not always recoverable by higher cognitive processes. Memories consists of many aspects, like… like emotions, sir. They exist thanks to the oldest parts of the human brain. They aren't strictly connected to newer, more evolved parts."

"All I can advise is for you to look into your emotions and feelings, and follow them."

"Whatever do you mean?"

"I'll put it this way: if you decipher where your feelings tell you to go, you can find a place ‒ here, in this world ‒ that would be your access to hidden memories." Newton smiled a bit more confidently this time. "They were able to hide them from you, but I'm almost certain it proved too difficult for them to burn all the bridges, so to speak."

It was silent, for a moment. Then Crowley spoke, softer than before.

"Why are you telling me all of this?"

Something glistened in the guy's eyes. Sympathy, maybe.

"I may like being able to put working for this company on my CV, but it feels wrong to let them _ do _ such things, to let it _ pass _ in silent countenancing." Newton was too good‒hearted for the job, Crowley noted. He was too nice, too _ honest. _It was surprising he was still an intern with this attitude.

Nevertheless, he felt grateful for this.

"Thanks, kid."

"I know some things are vague but I don't know everything about what happened," Newton smiled, a tad too sad for Crowley's liking. Maybe the guy was more emotional that he had given him the credit for? "If, or maybe rather _ when _, you recover your memory, everything should be clear, though."

Crowley gave him a look, something feeling slightly off. As if the guy wasn't telling him everything he actually knew.

"...Right."

It could be his tired mind playing tricks on him, it could be true but not in a sense Crowley had presumed. He didn't know much about neurobiology nor technological advancements that his company apparently dabbled in, Newton could as well avoid mentioning things that were important but extremely difficult to comprehend by somebody outside the field.

Newton looked at his watch what felt like hundredth time and jerked up, quickly gathering his stuff.

"I'm afraid our time is up. I can keep them away for only so long. Good luck, Mr. Crowley."

And with that he stormed out of the building, Crowley looking after him for a minute or two, before deciding on taking his leave as well.

Angel didn’t bother to talk to him on their way back, sticking to the role of a silent companion. There was plenty of things to talk about, some of them quite urgent in fact, but it seemed like he sensed Crowley’s unease and confusion, and wanted to give him some space. Some time to dwell on the matter alone. He appreciated the gesture because there sure were things he needed to comprehend, and that could only mean more headaches in the near future.

Crowley just really wanted to go home.

  
  


“Any ideas about where to start?” Angel asked in the evening, as Crowley indulged himself in yet another glass of wine. It technically wasn’t a sad solitude drinking if angel was there, right?

“Not really,” he admitted, the red liquid suddenly fascinating.

“Crowley,” angel sighed, perching on the armchair next to him. “You can’t run away from these things‒”

“I’m not running away!”

“So what is this?”

There was silence. And then some more.

“I’m… I’m scared, angel.”

Angel raised his eyebrows at that, but said nothing, and so Crowley continued. “I’m scared, because from what I’ve inferred, I had an accident which my superiors used as an excuse to test things on me‒” a steadying sip of wine. “‒but I’m not locked up in a cell nor kept in the hospital bed, so there are only two options left, angel. I either turned out to be a shitty guinea pig or‒”

“...you’re still under their influence.”

“Exactly my point.” Crowley downed the rest of the glass and was considering pouring himself another one. “This company has a shitton of branches, angel. For all I know, they could just as well be pumping me up with a new drug to “observe me in the wild” because they’ve put a new microchip in my brain.”

“And you know what’s the worst part?” 

Angel gave him a quizzical look. 

“On our way here, I tried to remember how I even ended up in this job, how the interview went. All I recalled were stacks of forms, both obligatory and non‒mandatory, and that one form metaphorically stood up from the rest.”

Crowley smiled bitterly. “I think it was the form the Newton guy was talking about. I don’t remember what it was about beside the fact that I’ve thought ‘_ well, why the hell not _’ and signed it. In the long term, I’ve brought all of this‒” he waved his hand in the air, gesturing at nothing in particular and everything at once. “‒on myself.”

“Oh, Crowley…” angel seemed sad, empathy basically radiating from him. It made Crowley’s heart ache in a weird, almost nostalgic, way.

Crowley let his head rest on his hands, face buried in them, a shield from the world around. Newton said he needed to think less and feel more, generally speaking, so slight intoxication could turn out to be helpful.

He shut off his brain as much as he could, and exhaled. He was bad at describing his feelings, at naming them properly, so it took him a while to find a term for what he was experiencing now.

Longing.

Loneliness.

He was yearning for something he could not name, could not remember. He took another breath, letting his mind roam free.

A vague sense of loss.

Softness.

A smell of old books.

“Crowley?” He looked up to see angel’s face just few inches from his own, full of worry. “Is everything alright? You’re crying.”

“Huh?” Sure enough, his cheeks were wet, tears glistening on floor tiles. “Yeah, I’m… I’m fine. I’m fine.”

“Did you remember something?”

He told him. Then they decided they’ll start looking for old bookstores and antique shops around the city. That was always _ a start, _angel insisted. Crowley nodded in agreement, though his guts begged to differ, tangling themselves up in tight knots whenever he thought about the possibility of regaining full access to his memories. Just as if they knew better than digging in things forgotten. 

That couldn’t be a good sign.

Some digging was done, and then some more. They rode all around the city, and then digged some more. Asked innocent question here and there, hoping for the best. And then, after a few days of intense search, they got a plausible lead… So to speak.

Crowley took a stroll around the neighbourhood to calm his nerves, then the weather turned shit, and so he thought better of it and called a cab. As he was closing the door, the car already in motion, he saw a glimpse of an old bookshop in a driver’s mirror. The situation was so sudden and _ bizzare, _ and he felt so _ disconnected _ from the whole situation, that Crowley was later unable to tell angel where exactly the place was. _ Probably somewhere in Soho _ , he managed to conclude, not knowing what else to say… That tiny little glimpse back there and then made him convinced that _ that _ was it. That was what they were looking for. He knew it, he was _ sure _ of it. Then ‒ and he didn’t want to know _ how _‒ angel found the exact location.

And now, sure enough, they were standing in front of an old-and-closed-down-it-seemed bookshop, in the middle of the city. It looked both out of place and strangely fittin. Crowley swallowed hard.

“You think this is the place?”

“It certainly matches the description you gave me the other day,” angel said, taking a step towards the store. “And, to be frank, this place is odd enough that it actually might be what you’re looking for.”

“What do you mean?”

It was the middle of the day. And yet, there were few people around, the whole area rather deserted. _ Strange, _Crowley wanted to say but somehow couldn’t, the word stuck in his throat.

“You noticed it while strolling down the street, but when you tried to look it up in the internet, there was no information about it whatsoever.”

Crowley nodded. “Fair point. I’ve never really noticed this place before, too.”

“Oh?” 

“I know this area pretty well, you know. I’ve been walking down these streets for _ so _ long and _ so _ many times, and I’ve never _ seen _it, like I was ignoring its existence or not paying attention to it at all.”

Angel hummed. “It’s not that weird, though. I presume many people do so with objects in their environments once they got used to them.”

“Yeah, that could be it.” Crowley gave the building another look. “Still, this place gives me shivers.”

“And why is that?” Angel looked at him quizzically. “The place doesn’t seem like a creepy ruin. Abandoned, maybe, but it doesn’t appear _ scary… _ Or does it?”

It was a genuine question but Crowley had troubles with putting words together to give an honest answer. “I don’t know, maybe I’m so wrecked and weirded out I’m getting spooked by every desolated place I see.”

Or it was the place they were looking for and his instincts tried to keep him away from it, knowing better than his brain. He didn’t feel like trusting his irrational feelings and reactions, though he felt inclined to _ consider _their stance. 

As angel was trying to see the inside of the bookshop through the windows, Crowley tried to think of a way to _ get into _the place. Maybe there was a backdoor they could easily use…

“Mister?”

Crowley almost jumped out of his skin, having a severe heart attack beforehand. As he turned around, he saw the boy from the park, his heartbeat moderately calming.

“Jesus, kid, don’t sneak on me like that‒”

“I didn’t mean to.” Adam said in earnest, his dog barking, as if in confirmation of his master’s words. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing that should concern you.”

Adam looked around, spotting the creepy-but-actually-not-really shop. He seemed to be briefly considering something. “Are you trying to get in?”

“I’ve told you already, drop the topic.”

“Why?”

Crowley took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He liked kids and all, but dealing with their inquisitive questions was a challenge above his current mental capacities.

“I have a problem that I’m trying to solve, and this place might be helpful, is all.”

“Oh.” Adam, oddly enough, appeared satisfied with the answer… for now.

Crowley wanted to feel relieved but not three seconds passed, when the boy asked: “Have you tried to get through the front door?”

“I don’t really think they are opened.”

“Why not? If it’s shut down then what would be the point of closing the door? It’s not like there is anything of worth inside anymore.”

Crowley begged to differ, knowing full well why using a lock is important, but he didn’t feel like arguing with the kid. Instead, he decided to show him that he was wrong, by simply pulling at the door handle.

The only problem was that once he came up to the entrance and pulled, the door opened without a fuss.

Dumbfounded, Crowley turned to Adam, who _ beamed _triumphantly. “I told you, Mister!”

Crowley once again looked at the door, feeling betrayed. Then the peculiarity of the whole situation hit him, and so he wanted to ask: “By the way, what are you even doing here‒”

Adam was gone.

He looked in all directions, but the boy and his dog were nowhere to be found.

“Adam?” He called after him, to no avail. He didn’t hear the boy or his dog run away, it felt as if they both disappeared from the surface of the Earth.

“Oh, the door wasn’t closed?” Angel chimed in, coming in closer. “That’s strange but fortunate, don’t you thi‒ Crowley? Are you alright? What happened?”

Crowley shook his head, his hands slightly trembling. “Nothing, angel, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” He insisted, inspecting Crowley’s face further. “You seem awfully distressed to me.”

“I’ve been distressed since June,” he replied, finally holding himself well enough to look at the angel’s face. “Let’s go inside and get things done, shall we?”

Angel didn’t seem too convinced, but he nodded in agreement, following Crowley inside the building.

It was… in a surprisingly good condition, all things considered. A bit dusty, but otherwise well-preserved, if one could say so about the shop. It appeared to be shut down, or at least temporarily out of business. Crowley, however, didn’t expect the inside to look as if somebody’d just left, all books and whatnot still in their respectful places.

He had no idea how or why he knew everything was in order, that nothing was amiss. He just _ did, _ and that was scaring him a bit. His body appeared to know more about the place than his mind, which did nothing to ease the panic from before. _ Why _ this bookshop felt so uncomfortably familiar? _ Why _ he felt like home for the first time in literal _ months _ but wanted to hide and cry at the same time? _ What was going on? _

Angel paid Crowley no mind, or at least didn’t seem to notice his internal struggles. Instead, he devoted himself to going through the book-maze, his silhouette quickly disappearing in between bookshelves.

Crowley decided to investigate a bit on his own, too. Maybe if he found something out of place (whatever that would mean), he could call it a day and get out of here‒ 

A door.

A very ordinary, perfectly matching to the rest of the bookshop.

The hair on the back of Crowley’s neck stood on end.

“A‒ Angel?” He called, but no one answered back.

“Angel!” No response.

The bookshop felt very quiet.

“Shit,” Crowley said very, very quietly. The silence around him was suffocating.

His hand trembled as he put it on the doorknob. _ Logically, _there was nothing to be afraid of‒ it was just a fucking door. However, if Crowley has learnt anything those past weeks, it would be that logic and reason had packed up and left without leaving any note. Nothing made sense in his life anymore, so what was one more thing on the already long list?

Crowley took a deep breath, and opened the door.

The room didn’t stand out, its decor exactly the same as in the rest of the shop. There was a white mug on a wooden table. There were countless books on the shelves and on the ground. There was also an old-fashioned armchair, the front of it facing away from Crowley. 

Somebody was sitting in it.

For apparently no reason (or all possible reasons at once) his heart threatened to stop working unless Crowley _ get the fuck out of there that instant _ , so he decided to oblige it. The problem was that as soon as he moved, the somebody from the armchair shifted. And then some more, and then a bit to the right. Crowley felt frozen in place, unable to get away, incapable of doing _ anything. _

Then he saw the face.

The word “face” seemed rather incorrect, given that there was _no face _in conventional sense, not even a face-related _characteristic, _just a **_bloody pulp_** with teeth and maybe eyes, and yet _somehow _**_looking_** **_straight at Crowley,_** but that was a subtle problem for some lone cells in his brain. The vast majority of them was rather preoccupied with _getting a move on_, shutting the door close and running away _as far as fucking possible_ _from that thing._

Crowley ran like Hell, even reached the main entrance in a record time. He tugged frantically at the knob, and then some more. And then once more for the good measure, not wanting to believe that the front door was _ fucking _closed.

“C’mon, c’mon, _ c’mon _,” he pleaded to no one in particular, tightness in his throat on the verge of suffocating.

Maybe he could get out using a window, or mayhaps there were backdoors somewhere in his vicinity‒

He turned around and saw pulp of the face, only few inches away. He froze, unable to control his limbs anymore.

That was it, he thought. He was going to die. Surely, certainly‒

The thing with no face reached out to him, and then everything turned black, searing pain striking right through his brain.

It h urt so m uc h o h Lor d _ it h ur t _ ** _s o m uch‒!_ **

  
  
  


_ “Crowley, you didn’t have to go this far,” Aziraphale said, smiling. Crowley shrugged with one arm, eyes still on the road. _

_ “Oh c’mon, it was nothin’ special, angel,” he gave him a lopsided smile, the very one he knew Aziraphale both loved and hated. “Just you wait til the next anniversary, I already have big plans in motion.” _

_ Aziraphale looked at him with curiosity sparkling behind his eyes, as if he wanted to ask about the plans. Then, as if he thought better of it, he turned to look at the road ahead, his hand resting on Crowley’s knee, as it very often did. _

_ “Nevertheless, thank you, my dear boy. Table at the Ritz is so hard to get these days‒” _

_ A loud noise. Then a crash. _

_ Crowley smelt... the burn. The burning rubber, the burning meat. Somewhere far, far away he could hear the people scream. Sirens, too, maybe. He wasn’t sure. Everything was both a bright and a dark blurr. His head hurt. _

_ Hurt _so much.

  
  


_ “Good morning, Crowley. How do you like the Project Paradise?” _

_ He looked around, trying to understand what his boss meant. He was in a hospital bed, where the project was even supposed to be in this scenario? _

_ “I don’t think I follow.” _

_ They smiled at that and, as if on command, they _ flickered. _ Like a fucking hologram in sci-fi movies or something. Crowley felt concerned and, quite frankly, confused as all Hell. _

_ “Oh, don’t tell me you have forgotten?” They smiled some more, no warmth to it whatsoever. “The agreement upon joining the company? Give yourself the best gift possible. The Project Paradise, eternal happiness and more, just one‒” _

_ “...one step into the future away.” _

_ These fucking slogans, etched into most posters in their office building. _

_ “That’s right. So? How do you like the reality crafted around you?” They approached the bed, lightly touching the apparently-not-real flower in a vase beside it. “Impressive, don’t you think?” _

_ He nodded, not really knowing how to describe what he was feeling. It all seemed so… _ real... _ But then something dawned on him as soon as he remembered the whole “paradise” deal. _

_ “But if I’m here that would mean‒” _

_ “Ah, yes.” A man in a lab coat materialised out of nowhere, looming over both him and his boss. “That’d be the… less pleasant part of the whole thing. As stated in the agreement, your consciousness has been experimentally uploaded to the server, as you reached the point from where conventional medicine could not help you.” _

_ “A way of telling a man he’s dead.” _

_ “You’re not dead, Mr. Crowley,” said the doc, looking as composed as ever. “Your body may be damaged beyond any repair, but your ‘self’ and brain functions were intact enough to be able to perform the procedure. Also, if something is to be amiss in the nearest future, I’m here to help as an affiliated psychiatrist.” _

_ “Psychiatrist.” Crowley plopped his head back down. He might not have a physical head anymore, apparently, but it sure as hell felt like he still had one. Headaches, too. He could feel one approaching right that moment. _

_ Too many things to grasp at once, too many questions boiling inside of him… One more prominent than the others. _

_ “What about my husband?” _

_ The doc’s impeccable appearance shattered microscopically, even if for that split second. _

  
  


_ Time was relative, nothing was real and he was existing in Hell. _

_ They told him he’d been crucial to the project. That he’d been the first to be successfully transferred. That even though Aziraphale no longer existed in either world, they could make a copy, if he so desired. _

Screw you, _ he said at the proposition. _

Screw you, _ he thought as he stepped on the edge. _

_ And then he jumped. _

  
  


_ Just as Biblical sinners cannot escape Hell, Crowley was not allowed to leave. They locked him in the undetermined space beyond the carefully crafted artificial world, their arguing echoing faintly everywhere and nowhere at the same time. _

_ What was to be done with him? Should they let him die? Should they keep him? Should they convince him dying was not a good idea? _

_ “It’s too cruel!” A familiar voice yelled. They didn’t like that, it seemed. _

_ Then they decided, and Crowley’s consciousness drifted far, far away. So much further than it ever had. _

  
  
  
  


There was something solid underneath him. A floor. A very well-known, wooden floor. Behind him was a very well-known, old door. And in front of him ‒ a very well-known, overstuffed bookshop.

Aziraphale’s bookshop.

Crowley touched his face. It was wet with tears.

He looked to the side and sure enough, there he was. Sitting beside him, patiently. As he always did.

“Azira‒” he choked on the word. He couldn’t say it. He couldn’t say anything, for the matter. His throat felt too tight.

“It wasn’t your fault, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, even though he no longer had a mouth to speak with. “And you know that.”

“...”

“Why are you still blaming yourself, then? After all this time?”

The silence between them felt like an eternity. A very painful and acute one. Crowley still couldn’t make a sound, choking on his own tears. How could he forget, how could he _ let them _ make him _ forget _…

“_ God’s plans are ineffable _, or so he used to say.” There was a sad smile in his angel’s voice. “Though, I suppose, you never really were the unquestionably-believing type.”

Another pause, another little infinity of bleak existence.

“So,” voice trembling, Crowley tried to ask what had been boiling in his head for the past two forevers. “You are…”

“A manifestation of your guilt, yes.” Aziraphale seemed to be humming, though the sound couldn’t be exactly heard with no where to resonate within. “You have a way of torturing yourself, dear boy.”

“And you have never been him?”

Angel turned as if to look at him. Despite the lack of most facial features, he did look sad. “No, I’m afraid not.”

Crowley could hear _ that _ sad smile in Aziraphale’s voice. “They locked the memories of your beloved one away because it was the only way to keep this world stable but the guilty conscience cannot be contained. Sooner or later, the agony of remorse gets you.”

“Just like you got me.”

“In this case, figuratively _ and _ metaphorically, yes.”

Without their voices to interrupt the silence, the bookshop seemed awfully desolated. _ Devoid _of all the life.

“Aziraphale, what am I supposed to do now?”

If he could, angel would probably look heartbroken. Crowley wanted to think so, at least.

“Oh, I wish I knew, my dear boy. I wish I knew.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Hiraeth** (pronounced [hiraɪ̯θ]) is a Welsh concept of longing for home. _Hiraeth_ is a word which cannot be completely translated, meaning more than solely "missing something" or "missing home." It implies the meaning of missing a time, an era, or a person - including homesickness for what may not exist any longer.

**Author's Note:**

> Fic beta by [Josh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/technorat/profile), thank you so much friend ♡
> 
> EDIT 11/25: per suggestions, I'm adding the comic-previews from instagram into the story, to enhance the experience :D


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